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4 posts in this topic



The TV drones the sounds of company,

a half-full coffee-maker sends sweet steam

to drift around the sunny open room.

In spite of rain there is no need for heat

the thermostat sits just at seventy two.

Blue levi’s hug plump hips a little tight,

an over-sized white tee-shirt loosely hangs

from slightly rounded shoulders, spatter stains

of sauce at random dot the front. She stirs

the thick red stew and takes a taste to dream.


Her mind slips back to feel the boom of drums

and shouts to “turn that blasted music down”

responded by “its AC~DC, Mom.”

The same sweet smell is perking from the pot,

the kitchen then was small and white and old

and she would open the back door for air.

Her jeans were looser too, a stain would send

her off to change. She always tried to look

her best. She never knew how many to

be fed and threw in extra just in case.

Her man was coming home by dinner time

he often brought a friend to share their meal.


Tonight, no one will come, she'll eat alone.

------------------- --- Judi Van Gorder


Just bringing an old poem over to be Archived here.

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Subtle acquiescence counterbalances the slightly more apparent sense of melancholy in this memoir, and blank verse is the perfect choice of form. Well done!



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Employed all the senses, plus. For me, the pleasures of family and a pot of chili simmering.

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Thank you Tony, I haven't mastered meter like you but I'm working on it.


H Frank, Thanks, I;m a good cook too. Down home comfort food, you are welcome at our table any time..



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